


Happy Little Accidents

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist John Watson, Drawing, Figure-drawing class, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Model Sherlock Holmes, Nude Modeling, not sure I can call him an artist but let's have a bit of faith in him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22726456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: John had never really thought about art before the man dropped his dressing gown to the ground. Even then, art took a moment to manifest itself in John's mind, for his thoughts had gone as bare as the model in front of his seat: entirely.
Relationships: Jeanette/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 216
Kudos: 329





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are again with another iteration of the "John is failing at impressing a girl and meets Sherlock along the way" series!
> 
> I have written this way back during Nano, and it only lacks an epilogue. Since I've been in a weird writing funk lately, I thought I'd post this and write that one last chapter along the way. Updates every Friday!
> 
> Enjoy!

_We don't make mistakes, just happy little accidents._

\- Bob Ross

_Draw me like one of your French girls._

\- Sherlock Holmes, probably

John had never really thought about art before the man dropped his dressing gown to the ground. Even then, art took a moment to manifest itself in John's mind, for his thoughts had gone as bare as the model in front of his seat: entirely. 

But let's go back a bit before that.

John, from his earliest age, never had any specific interest in arts. Sure, he did like the other kids and stuck glue to his palm just for the nice sensation of ripping it off afterwards, and even indulged in the usual Mum-and-Dad-and-Harry-and-me figure-stick drawings. 

Now, if it weren't for his paediatric psychology class, he wouldn't care at all about any sorts of drawings in the first place, and if anatomy had always been a subject of interest for him, it was more to study it than to draw it. 

But _then_ came Jeanette with her lovely French accent and half-smile, her black turtlenecks, bordering-on-hipster jewellery, and her deep passion for classical arts, which she is pursuing at the same university John attends for his medical degree.

How that led to him registering for the figure-drawing class, he does not know in the end, because his brain has a tendency to shut down when a woman is involved, something his long-suffering flatmate, Greg Lestrade, has to put up with. 

But here he is, the first class of the semester, seated at a drawing desk, gaping at the very naked man in front of him. 

***

"John," Jeanette whispers, after what might have been a second or an hour.

She is holding a charcoal stick between her fingers, arm extended and raised parallel to the floor as she measures the naked body in front of them. 

It takes a second, annoyed, "John," to make him stop. 

Stop trying not to look at the man's private regions, which are definitely not that private right now and which John is definitely looking at trying not to look at it and oh—

Ah, fuck.

John throws a look over his shoulder, in a search for other, star-struck students, but everyone seems to be half-bent over their desks, already hurriedly working the charcoal sticks over the brownish paper. When a student or two looks up, it's only to hold the charcoal up like Jeanette, utter concentration written on their faces. 

Is no one surprised at all?

John clears his throat and looks back to the sheet of paper on his desk. He bites on his lower lip, takes a charcoal stick ( _shit_ — is it supposed to stain his fingers like that?) and imitates everyone else. 

"You have to extend your arm," Jeanette whispers to him, an annoyed tremolo in her voice, "or you'll get different measurements every single time." 

He huffs. Yeah sure, he never did art before, but it's not like he's _that_ incompetent. John extends his arm, and tries, above all, not to concentrate on the body in front of him.

Which is hard, since he is supposed to _draw_ that body.

The model is standing straight, arms to his side, legs hip-width apart. There is a certain nonchalance about him, even in that pose, but that might be from the absolutely bored expression on his face. An angular face that is, with cheekbones that could cut more deeply than the paper John is "sketching" on, and with lips that some people would die for. His eyes are blue, or maybe green, or maybe gray, John can't tell, and the man's looking at him so he really should divert his gaze and—

Yes. Look at his body. 

Because _that's_ better.

The man — young man really, he can't be older than him — is tall and lean, pale of skin with a freckle here and there. Lacking a bit of fat around the middle for John's taste, but that's student life, is it not?

Gorgeous, in one word. 

So much that John forgets he needs to draw him. Throwing a look at Jeannette, who seems to be already half-done, he clears his throat, and finally bends down over his desk to start the impossible task of rendering the model in front of him on paper. 

Halfway through the class, John still trying to avoid drawing the man's groin by already starting with the thighs, Anderson, the art teacher, asks the model to turn his back on the rest of the class. 

"You have thirty minutes left," Anderson says, "to do the back." 

"Uh—" John starts. 

Anderson looks at him, then at his drawing, then at him, then at his drawing. "Something to say, Mr—" 

"Watson. And no," he adds, "never mind." 

Anderson sniffs and turns away, to resume walking between the desk with the air of an army corporal.

John scoots forward, trying to get an angle at the man so that he can still see his front, but there's nothing to be done — he simply won't finish that part of the drawing. But then, when he looks at his work again, he can't help but recoil with horror. 

He started with the model's head, which is clearly too big for the rest of the body. One shoulder is bigger than the other, and the chest is too long, creating a frankly grotesque character. And what to say about the cloud of messy charcoal between the figure's legs… Oh, God. This is not going well.

Determined not to lose his cool, John shuffles through his things to get another brown sheet of paper out of his bag. His charcoal falls to the floor, and someone behind him snorts.

He bends down, to pick up his charcoal, and drops his dignity in the process. 

_Okay, you can do this,_ _Watson_ , he tells himself. Thirty minutes to draw the man's back — now that he knows, he'll watch for the time… and maybe try to get the proportions right…

But bums, as John soon finds out, are rather distracting as well. 


	2. Chapter 2

"Well, this is simply horrendous," Anderson says, as he passes behind John's desk, inspecting the student's work at the end of the class. 

From the corner of his eye, John can see the model, now wrapped in a dressing gown, taking his bags as he is preparing to leave. His attention is quickly brought back to the teacher, who is hitting John's drawing with the back of his hand.

"No, really, and you call yourself an art student?"

"Er, no, not really, I just took this as an option class and—" 

"I'm sorry," Anderson snaps, "but you cannot take this course as an _option_ class. This is for first-year art students that have passed the entrance exam." 

"Oh," John breathes out, somewhat relieved. "Then I'll just drop the class and be on my way. Sorry, I didn't know this was—" 

"You can't just _drop_ the class. Since you are officially on my list, should you not present yourself at your evaluation you will fail this course." 

"But surely I can unregister! I can't fail any class, I'm on a scholarship and—" 

"Administrative rules, I'm afraid. You'll have to keep coming to this class and I'll have to keep putting up with your rather awful art." 

Anderson shrugs and goes on to congratulate Janine on her rather lovely charcoal stroke, whatever that means, leaving John alone at his desk. 

"Bloody _hell,_ " he mutters to himself. 

He definitely did not want to get into a mess like that. Not for a girl. Not even for Jeanette. Okay, sure, he likes her, but to put his scholarship and his education in peril over someone he might get to kiss _one_ day — that's a no for him. 

With a grunt, he rubs his face with his hand, before looking up. The model who was here a second ago is now gone. 

Maybe it's not so bad if he's going to see him again next week, John thinks. 

"Let's go, John," Jeanette says, as she swings her bag over her shoulder. He knows she's heard Anderson — the whole class did — but maybe it is a kindness of hers that she remains oblivious to what just has happened, and to John's current state of panic. "Dear God, you've got charcoal all over your face!"

***

The next week, John goes to class with a certain apprehension. Apprehension towards Anderson, but also something more akin to excitement, as he half-realises he is going to see the nude model again. For some kind of reason, the man had followed him the whole week… in his thoughts, in his dreams, and on the slips of paper John would doodle on in his notebooks. 

Even after only seeing him for an hour, John could still remember details about the model and draw them with more accuracy than he had done in the class. As a med student, he's come to learn how to look at people — in his pathology classes, John can read a cause of death in the discolouration of a corpse's skin, in the bruising on their necks or the flickers of blood on their chests. But this… Art seems to require another _type_ of looking, another type of appreciation of one's body. 

Looking at details John would have never registered before: the curve of a man's spine, the shoulders-to-slender-hips ratio, the way a knee bends when weight is shifted from one foot to the other, the small, blue veins tracing a river down an arm, towards a soft-skinned palm, towards elegant, relaxed fingers. The way vertebrae produce small, paler bumps at the nape of the neck, where it meets a single, brown curl—

Okay, but would Anderson allow them to draw with pencils instead of charcoal? It's way easier that way, John thinks, but he doubts his teacher would agree.

He comes into the second class with the determination to refrain from asking about the pencils when he is hit by disappointment: 

On the small stand in front of the drawing desks, stands a naked woman. 

It may be the first time in John's life when a naked woman equals disappointment. There's a first time for everything, it seems.

She is tall and lean, with high cheekbones and dark hair — she could be the first model's sister, in fact, as the resemblance is quite striking. 

"We'll do exactly like last week," Anderson snaps at them. Is he perpetually in a foul mood? Is it a requirement to become an art teacher, or has John just got the worst possible one? Maybe Anderson should gaze at a nice, flowery still life from time to time. "Thirty minutes to draw the front, thirty minutes for the back. Begin." 

Unlike last week, when John looks at the model, his gaze never wavers. 

He's seen… well, maybe not a thousand naked women in his life, but a lot. Both in reality and through… the wonders of the Internet. There's nothing different here, except that he needs to sketch her and not try to get her in his bed — which would be easier for most people in this class, but not for John. He is already more prepared than last week and manages his time better, finishing both sides (not very well, but still) in time for Anderson to verbally destroy his work. 

This time, he doesn't budge at his words but thinks about the man that was standing in front of him last week. Will he ever see him again?

He wants to. Even if he didn't know where to look — and that's only because John has been confronted with a lot less naked men than women (okay, yes, he sees his mates in the locker room countless times and quite a few bodies in his med classes, it's not exactly the same) — but he is sure that he would do better, be more detached should he be given a second chance. 

Jeanette, at the end of the class, has completed another flawless drawing of the woman. John shoves his own in his backpack before she has the chance to look (although she must have heard Anderson berating him).

"Ready to go?" John asks her, and Jeanette smiles back. 

"Do you want to go out, this week? Before it gets crazy with all the exams?"

"Yeah, sure," he says. His hand brushes hers. "I'll text you?" 

"All right." 

Jeanette beams at him, and he does his best to smile back. 

Their date goes well. 

***

John comes to the conclusion that every beginning of every drawing class must start with a small heart attack, since the week after that, the male nude is back. 

From what John understands, the models will be alternating, one week after the other, to be as comfortable drawing women as drawing men. So he'll see his mystery man every two weeks, and the news makes him strangely cheerful. Even Jeanette looks at him once or twice, a frown on her face, as he can't keep the smile off his face as he draws the model in a seated position.

The man is as alluring as the first time around, his whole body relaxed as he is sitting on a chair, one corner of it between his legs, his shoulders propped against the back of his chair as his spine is slightly curved, his long legs extended towards John and the others. 

That's the hard bit, John thinks, the legs, because he needs to draw them from a perspective he doesn't really know how to achieve yet. And well, what's between the legs is also facing him, and in need of graphic representation. 

"Come on," he mutters to himself. Everyone draws cocks everywhere, and not in the most mature of fashions. Surely he can draw one in the moral environment that is an art class, with a consenting man as a model? There is absolutely no reason to be stuck on that particular part of a man's anatomy. 

Except that this cock looks… soft. Not soft as not erect, but soft as skin-pink and wrapped in a fragile-looking foreskin, nested in a thick cloud of dark, curly hair.

Okay, he's staring, now, he realises, and shakes his head. 

This particular cock looks… sweet? Not vulgar at all, at least, not like the drawings found in the corners of notebooks and graffitied on the corner of the uni's concrete walls. And John can't render any of that, as he draws it again and again as something brutish and dark between the man's legs. Just like he can't exactly render who the man truly is, behind his looks and the curves and straight lines of his body. 

He can't exactly draw how the man's eyes pierce him, how they seem to read everything about him when they set on him, or how, now, his eyes closed, he looks absolutely relaxed as if on the brink of falling asleep, but paradoxically in deep reflexion as well… No, John can't draw that, and when he looks over at Jeanette's table, notices that she can't either. Maybe no one can. Maybe art has its limitations, in that way. 

And then, just as he is finishing with the toes, the man comes alive in a single shudder, and in the next second, he's on his feet, his mouth curled in a silent _oh_. 

"The green ladder is his uncle's!" he shouts, and a few students plunged in deep concentration jump around John, who lifts his head in time to witness the model swinging on his blue dressing gown, loosely tying it around his waist, and then swirling out of the room, still half-naked but in evident hurry. 

Some people cough, a few students chuckles, but Anderson brings back the class to some kind of order. "Well," he says, clearly unhappy about that. "Were you done, at least?" 

Most of the students were somewhere near finished, and so, without further ado, Anderson lets them go. 

"He's kind of crazy, isn't he?" Jeanette whispers to John as they exit the room. 

"Dunno. Maybe he just forgot his stove on or something." 

"I don't like him much," Jeannette says, and John doesn't reply. 

No, he doesn't want to cross her by saying his opinion. But he can't wait to see the man in two weeks again, and maybe, of all things, ask him if he found his green ladder. 

***

Things with Jeanette take a turn for the worse when she realises John isn't much interested in talking about obscure contemporary artists and going to black-and-white New wave French movies. She's not very pleased when he falls asleep in the middle of one of these, but he _has_ been up all night studying neurology, after all. Jeanette doesn't seem to think that it's a good excuse, and when John leans in at the end of their date, as he did for the first two they had, she ducks her head and pushes the door to her flat, a cold goodbye on her unkissed lips.

He'll have to come up with something to apologise, take her to the National Gallery and go through the torture of being explained each painting in profound depth to make up for it, or something. But it's also been three days since that happened, and John is secretly glad for that bit of a break. Maybe he's doing better without her. 

John yawns. He is waiting for his coffee at the uni's café, as he has settled down with his things on a nearby table. It's easier to study here at night than go back to his flat to witness Greg, his roommate, all over the place with his new girlfriend, Molly. Both of them are good friends of his, but it's a bit much when they're making out on every surface available, and waking him up in the night headboard-percussion style against John's walls. 

As much as he's missing on already-rare sleep, he hasn't commented on it yet. God knows it's been the other way around for a while now — Greg deserves this bit of happiness, and the honeymoon period should pass soon anyway. John should have been sleeping at Jeanette's place at this point, but he doesn't expect that to happen any time soon. 

This means that he's pretty much established himself at the uni's coffee shop, where the coffee is decent and cheap, and the place is open twenty-four/seven to the desperate.

"For John," the barista says, as she slides forward a cup of espresso. 

Head feeling already lighter at the promise of coffee, John stands up, but just as he's about to reach for his cup, he collides chest first with another student. 

"Jesus— sorry," he says, even though it's _technically_ not his fault, and looks up to meet a pair of pale blue eyes that remind him of someone. 

But where? He looks the man up and down — he's dressed smartly, in tight dark jeans and a shirt, with a black trench coat on his shoulders — John's seen him before, but never quite like that, right?

"Oh my God," John realises, and the man quirks an eyebrow up. "I'm sorry, I didn't recognise you… You're dressed." 

"Not for long."

John licks his lips. "Er—" 

"Going to a drawing class, now," he says and waves a hand over his clothes as to indicate that he's going to lose them soon. God, even if he's heard him once before, John's forgotten how surprisingly deep his voice is. 

"Right," John says, "you don't… do just us." He feels stupid as the words leave his lips. Really? _Do_?

The model smirks. He actually _smirks_. "No, John, I do many people." 

"I— how do you know my name?" 

"I may not be able to move when I'm posing but I'm not deaf." 

"No, right," John says, realising that the model's been able to hear their conversations from the start. "And… you are?" 

"Sherlock Holmes," the model offers, and extends the hand that is coffee-free for John to shake. "I've got to go. See you on Tuesday."

"Right, er— bye, then," John mutters, before his next thought hits his brain. "Wait! Have you found your green ladder?"

Sherlock turns around, and his usually inexpressive features break into a grin. 

John laughs, and on that, Sherlock disappears behind the door. 

***

On Tuesday, when John sits down at his desk, he swears that Sherlock, upon his little stand, has just looked at him and smiled. A brief thing, that barely lasted a second, but that John catches nonetheless. 

It shouldn't make him feel so warm inside, but it does. 

Inexplicable. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cocks & closets. 
> 
> (There are bits border-lining on crack, here, but I regret nothing...! Also, just a tad of John/Murray, but Johnlock is still very much endgame!)

"Horrendous, Mr Watson, simply horrendous," Anderson's voice echoes in John's head, as he's trying to drown himself in his cup of coffee. He's got a neuro exam in two days yet he can't stop thinking about his drawing class and how hard he is failing it. He's got tons better since he started, but that still isn't good enough for Anderson. 

_Ah, fuck him_ , John thinks. He can't spend the rest of the day being maudlin about his drawing skills when he needs to study to save literal _lives_. 

With a sigh, John opens his books and takes a sip from his coffee. He has once more relocated to the uni's coffee shop since Molly and Greg were rather involved on the sofa this morning.

Twenty minutes later, he's banging his forehead over 1200 pages of neurology mumbo-jumbo, a constant flow of, "This is hell, this is fucking _it_ , I'm in fucking hell," pouring from his lips. 

"Good morning, John."

John lifts his head just in time to see Sherlock dropping on the chair in front of him, placing his satchel on the table.

"Existential crisis over studying?" Sherlock enquires, an eyebrow quirked up. 

"Something like that. I don't even have the energy to complain about Anderson, which is, like, my _favourite_ activity," he confides, leaning over the table, a smile on his face.

Sherlock smirks. "Seems bad indeed. That's why I'm here, by the way." 

"To make fun of Anderson?" John asks, frowning.

"No, nothing so… inefficient. What I'm suggesting is direct action." 

John leans back on his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Can you be just a bit _less_ specific than that?"

"All right," Sherlock says, as he opens his satchel and retrieves a few pieces of paper from it. "I did some research this weekend, and here are the facts: Some sort of glitch in the uni's website coding enabled you to register in the drawing class, which is usually only for first-year art students." 

"Yeah, I'm kind of painfully aware of that."

Sherlock raises a finger, as to make him shut up. "So, you enrolled in the drawing class, clearly to impress that French girl seated beside you, not the best reason to explain a sudden interest in art but I guess that's how heterosexual men's brains are constructed. Anyway, when Anderson raised the issue on the first week, he told you that there is no way to unregister from the class, which was, in fact, false."

" _What_?"

Sherlock hums, and slides a sheet of paper forward on the table, with the air of a master spy presenting John with his next mission. "I researched this weekend and found the rules of the art department — I'll spare explaining to you _that_ process — but this states clearly that any student has until week six to unregister from any art class without failing it." 

John gapes. "But— but— we're week seven…" 

"Unfortunately, yes. I did contact the head of the department to see if anything could be done in a case such as yours. She was quite surprised to see that this mistake had escaped her notice. What she meant, of course, is that Anderson had not notified her about it. She did say that if something could have been done last week, it is now impossible to unregister you from that particular class." 

"Thanks," John says, "but I don't really see how this helps." 

Sherlock looks down at the piece of paper, and when he looks back up at John, there's a grin on his face. "Anderson has lied about departmental rules to a student, only to keep him in class as a sort of outlet for his frustration. The head of the department did not appreciate it very much when I brought that up to her. He's getting fired this week," Sherlock says, victorious. "And we're getting a replacement."

"Holy— Are you serious?" 

"Of course I am, John." 

John can't help but smile. It feels like half of his worries are lifting off his shoulders. "Holy shit, that's amazing, thank you. I— let me buy you coffee, we need to celebrate." 

Sherlock's eyes widen, before crunching slightly as if analysing John or the situation.

Five minutes later, they are sipping at their cups, the silence between them somewhat awkward. John kept thanking Sherlock to a point where it seemed to embarrass him quite a bit, so he stopped. But — oh God, the relief! Anderson, gone!

"May I see your drawings?" Sherlock asks, breaking the silence. "Oh, please," he adds, seeing John's hesitation, "I spend hours and hours sitting there without ever seeing the result. It can get a bit frustrating."

"It's just that I'm… not that good."

"Yes, John, I've already heard Anderson express that any possible way the English language permits him to. This is only to satisfy my curiosity."

Grumbling, John leans to get his drawing pad out of his bag. Feeling heat rising to his cheeks, he nonetheless slides it to Sherlock, who opens it, and leans back against his chair. 

For the next few minutes, Sherlock goes through pages and pages of bad sketches and even worse drawings, in complete silence. Finally, he sets the pad down to the latest drawing, something John is quite proud of, and breaks the silence. 

"It's not as bad as I thought it would be. Anderson is very creative in his insults."

John chuckles, nervously. "Really?" 

"Oh, yes, of course, it seems that you have no idea what a penis looks like, but otherwise, it's quite good. You're getting better."

" _I'm sorry_?"

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow up. "John, clearly, my penis looks nothing like that," he says, waving at the mash of dark charcoal between the drawing's legs. "Even a twelve-year-old vandalising walls has a better understanding of male anatomy than you do. And it's clear that you have no qualms about drawing Irene naked—" 

"Irene?" And what is it, with all that discussion Sherlock's cock?

"The other model. You are evidently used to a certain type of body. But you should not either have any apprehension at drawing penises—" (okay, do they really need to have that conversation so loud in the middle of the shop?) "—since you have one yourself. Unless…" Sherlock stops and stares at John, a strange look on his face.

John opens his mouth, unsure what words he wants to choose, right now.

"You don't have to answer that," Sherlock says quickly, with a roll of his eyes that seems directed at himself.

"No, er— I have one— I mean— I'm not—"

"Anyway," Sherlock cuts in, "I think that your issue on that point has nothing to do with your actual drawing skills." 

"Must you psychoanalyse me this way? My mind is already frail from all the studying and so," John teases. 

Sherlock straightens on his chair and smiles. "It's not psychoanalysing but deducing. Isn't it _fun_?"

"No, not really," John says. It's without venom, but with much despair. "What would you suggest, then?" 

"It's obvious, really." Sherlock's smile transforms into a smirk as he leans above the table. "Since you draw as if you haven't ever seen any penis but your own, I think it's only a matter of getting used to it. See it as an experiment. If I were you, I would select a few different… _specimens_ , to get a better sense of general anatomy. Once you're comfortable enough, you may pick your favourites, and think about why you like them. Why they seem different from the others, why you would like to represent them. Analyse them. Handle them… on paper, of course. And then, draw them everywhere. In your notebooks, on your agenda — everywhere. Next week, when you have a go at me again, the result will already be better than this," he adds, chin pointing at the drawing.

John frowns. He's not exactly sure they're talking about drawing dicks anymore, but it does seem like sound advice. Repetition is the key, here, right? Just like he is getting better at drawing Sherlock's body week after week, he can conquer that particular part of him if he gets to it with diligence. And he cannot fail this class.

"Okay…" he breathes out. "Yeah, I'll try that." 

"Good. I have to go," Sherlock says, gathering his things. "There's a house facade in Leinster Gardens that needs to be checked on." 

And on that, Sherlock is out of the coffee shop, leaving John behind. 

***

Three days later and after a lot of experimenting, Greg opens one of John's notebooks left behind on the table, and nearly inhales half of his sandwich.

"Jesus Christ, John, how old _are_ you?"

***

And this is where experimenting gets interesting.

John never really had any opinions about cocks. He's seen a few, of course, not always in very glamorous settings — anatomy labs count, don't they? — and on a few occasions, he's even seen them on living people. Post-rugby showers being the place of preference.

Not that John wants to start ogling his teammates to get inspiration for some drawings — that would be creepy, and let's not even talk about consent — but it does make him realise that he has always been actively _avoiding_ having to look at cocks. He thought of the fact he didn't look at them as normal, it's just a part of their anatomy, of course, but he's never been as relaxed amongst naked men as his teammates always have been. 

_Why?_

To be honest, in a room full of naked men, John feels pretty much as uncomfortable and as out of place as if he were in a room full of naked women.

Well, well. 

All these thoughts marinate in his brain for a few days, during which he sets any kind of reflexion aside for the time of a particularly insane party at Wilson's, one of the rugby lads, after the mid-semester week of exams. 

The whole team is there, of course, along with girlfriends, boyfriends (in Ben's case), and approximately fifty other people, most of whom John doesn't know. Greg is supposed to be here as well, with Molly, somewhere in the mass of dancers and drinkers.

Idly, John wonders if Sherlock is here too. Not that it feels like it would be his crowd if Sherlock even frequents parties. 

_I do many people, John_. Was that an innuendo? In any other situation, John would have said yes, except that Sherlock was only repeating John's awkward phrasing.

What would happen should John see him, here, in the middle of the crowd, dancing on the floor? His throat dry, he imagines himself stepping up to him, maybe ask him to dance together. Would Sherlock want that? Is he… in any way inclined towards men? 

_Is John?_

Two hours later, swaying on his feet and properly drunk, John is being pushed by two of his mates in a walk-in closet on the second floor, in which Bill Murray is already sitting, an empty beer bottle in hand. 

"Oh, hi," Bill says, looking up. 

"Mmmh, hello," John slurs. "You're apparently being no fun when you're moping and brooding, and whatever," he adds, pointing at the door to signify his entrance and the few blokes that pushed him there. "And the lads have sent me in to cheer you up." 

Bill's eyebrow quirks up. "And how do you intend to do that?"

"Uuuuh, I dunno. Ask you nicely to come back outside?" 

Bill laughs — the kind of drunk giggle that means he's had more to drink than it shows. Without thinking much, he drops next to Billy and sits on one of those low drawers, clothes brushing his back.

"So…" John starts, seeing that Bill is not going to say anything else. "What's up?" 

He frowns at himself and rubs his hand at the back of his neck. Bill and he have always been pretty good friends, maybe not as close as he is with Greg, but the kind that hangs out together during team-only activities and such. They do hella good work on the field as well, but tonight, it's evident that there's something wrong with Bill and John is not sure Bill he wants to talk about it. They aren't _that_ close, but maybe things are about to change.

"Nothing much," Bill says. "It's just—" He stops, and sighs. 

"Uh." 

"It's just— thinking about someone, you know?"

It's John's turn to sigh. Sherlock hasn't left his thoughts the whole evening. "Yeah, I know."

"They're just… far away, and they don't really know, see?" Bill brings the bottle to his lips, before realising it's empty. "It just…"

Third-person, eh? The rugby lads always talk about their girlfriends or crushes, but he's never heard Bill make any comments on that.

"Sucks, mate." 

"Yeah, that. Maybe I shouldn't bother."

"Aw, come on, mate, if you're feeling it, maybe they should know about it? Maybe they're feeling it too." John's not exactly sure if this is good advice or not, but it feels like something Bill needs to hear right now. 

"Not sure about that," Bill says, rubbing one hand over his other arm. 

"Oh, come on," John laughs, and shoves him gently in the shoulder. "You're a good bloke, and you're like, crazy hot." 

He registers the words just as they leave his mouth, and feels his face heat instantly. It's the absolute truth though — Bill has always been _objectively_ hot. Like a younger John Boyega, with the body of one of the very best rugby players in the league. 

Bill laughs at that. "You think so?"

John nods. 

"Well, you're not so bad yourself," Bill says, and John snorts. 

When John will think back to this particular event, he will not exactly remember how things went from gentle teasing to making out. But there they are, Bill's mouth hot and pressing against John's, and there's quite a bit of tongue involved. 

Bill instantly goes from _good bloke and crazy hot_ to _good bloke, crazy hot and amazing kisser_ in a matter of seconds. And it's good. It's just that — good, and comfortable, and there's Sherlock at the back of John's mind but nothing has happened there and nothing probably will, so why not indulge a bit? It would be nice, though, kissing Sherlock, should Sherlock be amenable. Those lips of his— fuck.

The kiss deepens, and Bill is nearly crawling on John's lap when Bill pulls back, flustered. 

"Okay, okay," Bill says, and John laughs. "I don't think we're in our right minds right now."

"Oh, God, definitely not." They have both been thinking about someone else, John knows. 

"Let's save it for… you know."

John grins back at him.

Shuffling a bit, they rearrange themselves a bit, trying to look somewhat presentable, and Bill gets to the door first. John will leave after him in a few, through the bathroom door. Nobody seems to know about either of them, and they would rather keep it that way for now. 

"John?" Bill says, just before pushing the door open. "You did cheer me up, thanks."

John barks out a laugh and waves a hand at him. "Get out of there. See you at practice." 

"See you. And good luck. Whoever they are." 

John nods at Bill, who walks through the door. The moment the door closes behind, John sighs. This has all been in good fun, but he's got to rethink a few things about himself he believed were clear. 

_Cocks too_ , then.

Yeah. The prospect is not nearly as frightening as John thought it would be. 

_Cocks._

_Well, okay._

On that, John takes a breath and steps out of the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only understood the metaphorical impact of John and Bill having that discussion in a closet when I innocently wrote the last word to that last line here. It wasn't supposed to be this direct, but it does illustrate well the current situation. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

At the beginning of the next drawing class, Jeanette sits beside him for the first time in three weeks and tries to engage in conversation. John doesn't bother too much. It was pretty clear from the lack of answer on her part after their last post-date fight that this was the end of their… _not even_ relationship. 

After making out with Bill Murray in Wilson's closet, John is pretty sure he's done with Jeanette, anyway.

He stays polite and asks her how she's doing, before sitting down at his desk and taking out his pencil case. He doesn't have to avoid her for long, because they are all soon enough distracted by a woman in her mid-thirties, small, with impressive fiery-red hair, who enters the class and sets her bag down on the teacher's desk.

"Hello everyone," she says, beaming. "My name is Ida Czerny, but please call me Ida. I'll be replacing Anderson for the rest of the semester. I must admit that I do not often teach this class — my specialty lies in photography and contemporary art, and I have a long history of oil painting, but we've all been through the basics at some point, so I will do my best to get you through the end of this semester. Sherlock," she says, and for the first time, John notices that Sherlock has entered the room through the back door. He was always placed and ready to begin the weeks prior, and Anderson certainly did not interact with him or even mention him by name.

"Sherlock, you can sit down on the loveseat there." 

As naturally as ever, he shakes off his dressing gown from his shoulders, puts it over the back of the nearest chair, and sits down on the loveseat. He looks tired, John thinks, which is pretty much the norm for students right now, just after the exam week. 

Miss Ida comes in front of Sherlock and gets a good look at him. "Okay, all right, Sherlock, if you can recline a bit… Or lie down, in fact, yes. Turn your shoulders a bit towards me," she directs him, "one leg over the other… just like that. Make one of your arms come forward? Yes, lovely. Now you can rest your head on a cushion. Are you comfortable?"

Sherlock nods. 

"Good. So," Miss Ida says, towards the class, "you've been starting to draw a few more complicated positions, but I don't think you ever drew a body lying down. Pencils and charcoal, everyone, you've got an hour for this, until the break. Any questions?" 

All students get to their pencils and start drawing. Sherlock's posture is not that hard — they've done a few crazy ones with Anderson — but John really wants to get the perspective right on this one, something he hasn't been able to achieve yet. 

He gets the general lines with his pencil and moves to start with the charcoal when Miss Ida passes behind him. Unlike Anderson, she actually seems to be interested in what her students are doing. 

"What's your name?" she asks him. 

"John." 

"Oh," she says, realising something. "You're the one who got mixed up in this class, right? That explains a lot," she says, and John groans.

She laughs. "No, no, it's not that bad, I promise. I'll give you a few tricks that will become handy in time, okay? So, when you draw, you don't want to start with one precise point. If you start with the head only, you'll probably get your proportions wrong with the rest of the body. Instead, pick up your charcoal — yes, like that — and draw a smooth line that goes through the whole body." 

John does as he is told, a bit scared to mess it up by applying the charcoal over most of his sheet of paper. 

"Good!" Miss Ida smiles. "You really want to get the curve of the body right, it will add a lot more fluidity to your drawing. Now that you've done so, you can start working from there, from the middle to the extremities. Always look back at your model to get your proportions right. And don't focus on the details right now, even though you probably want to. Keep doing that, I'm going to see what the others are up to." 

John nods again and starts working on the rest of the drawing. It's a bit strange at first, doing it so counter-intuitively, but he quickly understands why it's a better technique than what he was doing before. 

Five minutes later, Miss Ida's voice breaks John's focus. "Are you cold, Sherlock? I always forget that the models aren't wearing anything." 

"I'm fine," Sherlock says, the first words he has spoken in class, maybe apart for that time with the ladder, that John never got to ask him about.

"Ariane, could you turn up the heating maybe one or two degrees up, please? I'd be freezing if I were you," she says, not minding Sherlock's words. 

John frowns, and for the first time, notices that Sherlock's arms are covered in goosebumps. God, was he freezing all that time when Anderson was their teacher? Or is it only because the weather is getting colder? John definitely hopes it's the latter. 

It takes him a moment, but his attention eventually returns to his drawing. His focus is so intense that it takes him a moment to register to faint noise going through the classroom, a breathing sound that gets louder and louder. 

John frowns, along with a few of his classmates, looks up and right, and when his eyes land on Sherlock, he notices he has fallen asleep, peacefully curled on his side, not having moved at all from the posture he has to hold. 

Miss Ida chuckles. "Exam week was hard?"

A few students groan.

"Thought so. Well, since he's still holding that pose, let's let him sleep, poor sod. All right, Mark, what have you got there?"

John keeps working on his own painting and rejoices at having the proportions quite right. Miss Ida spends a few more minutes explaining to him how to get the perspective right as well, how to make it look like Sherlock's arm is protruding forward, on paper, from his sleeping body. Pencil between his teeth, John is groaning and nodding along as he corrects those parts on his mess of a drawing, when—

_BANG!_

John's head flies up, and before he even knows what has happened, he's up on his feet and reaching for Sherlock, who has fallen off the loveseat and rolled off the flight of stairs upon which he usually poses. 

"Jesus Christ, are you all right?"

John is reaching for him, before his hands still. Okay, he probably should _not_ be touching a naked person without their consent. Instead, he sits back on his heels and hears Miss Ida approaching in his back. 

"Sherlock, are you okay?" 

Sherlock blinks and looks up at them, seemingly confused at being naked and on the cold ground with an audience in front of him. 

"You're in figure-drawing class," John says and notices how Sherlock's eyes instantly light up, understanding. 

"I'm… fine," Sherlock drawls. "Must have fallen asleep."

"That, you did," Miss Ida says. "I let you sleep, you were holding the pose until— well…" 

Sherlock frowns. Just like John, he probably hasn't expected this new teacher to be _that_ nice. Steadily, Sherlock rises to his knees, and stands up, followed by John.

John steadies his gaze on Miss Ida, too afraid to look at Sherlock now that he is fine. Being this close to him when he's still naked and not holding a pose definitely feels strange and a bit not good.

"Are you okay to continue?" Miss Ida asks Sherlock. "Or we can end the class on this and finish this in two weeks?" 

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock says and goes back up the steps to lay down on the loveseat once more. 

John sits down at his desk and looks over at Jeannette, who hasn't stopped working on her drawing, correcting bits here and there. 

" _Finally_ ," she says, glancing up at Sherlock. 

John rolls his eyes. Doesn't she care at all for the bloke who's putting up with this every two weeks for their sake? No, of course not. She only thinks about herself, John grumbles internally, and art. Like all the rest of the class, already scribbling away on their desks. 

***

John is cheerful at the prospect of another drawing class, mostly because he will get to see Sherlock again. Drawing class is a pleasure to have under Miss Ida's keen eye and good use of pedagogy. John already likes her a lot, even before she took him aside after the class, two weeks ago, when Sherlock had fallen asleep, to analyse his drawing and offer bits of advice. 

Even more surprisingly, she seems to be able to see qualities in John's drawings he himself hadn't even noticed. 

"I like this one a lot," she said, then, going through John's portfolio and pointing at the drawing he had completed. "Your sense of anatomy has already improved from the first few weeks." Which was probably code for _you can draw cocks, now!_ "It's clear you've always had a keen eye for anatomy. You're studying medicine, right? That explains a lot. But there's something I like even more in your drawing — I did tell you not to focus too much on details, and you didn't listen to me, of course—" 

John made a sound. 

"No, no!" Miss Ida chuckled. "It's his face. When we study anatomy, like that, unless we're making a portrait, we often do not draw heads or faces, if so, just the general lines. Yet in every single one of your drawings, you always seem to put emphasis on his face. It's not about emotion, I wouldn't say so, because by drawing a body on paper you are already capturing emotions, his and your own, but this… It's like you want to get him whole. Like you can't resolve yourself to miss such an important part of him by _not_ detailing it."

John looked down at his drawing, slightly confused. "I liked how he looked when he was asleep. His face is different when he's awake, like he's always thinking about things. But this… this felt…" 

"Vulnerable?" Miss Ida suggested, a smile on her face. 

That seemed a bit intense. "Uh, I don't know. Maybe."

On that, someone knocked on the front door of the classroom, and a woman peeked inside. "Oh, sorry, darling, I thought you were done for the day." 

"In a minute, love, all right?" 

John looked down, heat flushing in his cheeks for having witnessed what he probably shouldn't have had.

"In any case," Miss Ida said, her attention returning to John after her partner (wife?!) closed the door again, "I think you're a better artist than you credit yourself for, John."

John snorted. 

"No, no, I mean it. And don't forget… art is about the essence of the artist, more so than the essence of what is drawn." And on that, she added: "Have a good week, John." 

So yes, after receiving a few compliments about his drawings (and one frankly ominous saying about art), John is quite happy to push the door into the classroom on the day Sherlock is supposed to pose for them again.

A few people are already at their desks, preparing their material, but when John looks up to where Sherlock should be, his smile fades away from his face. 

Sherlock isn't there — in his place, there is a beast of a man wearing a red dressing gown, a hunk with spray-tanned skin and a smile that's so bright it hurts John's eyes.

With all of his (meager, but still) experience, John knows now that there is nothing sexual at all in a drawing class, when most artists are working hard, sweating under the heat of the room and losing their nerves as the hour advances, but he catches the looks a few of the girls — Jeanette included — throw at the model.

John hates him already.

The rest of the class is miserable. Miss Ida explains that this week, they're focusing on different parts of the body in order to draw musculature in a few different positions. Mr Hunky and Tanned does his best impression of a Greek statue and flexes in every possible position, each change making John's teeth grit together. 

Okay, Sherlock isn't the most muscled man on this Earth. So what? It's nice to draw someone who is not exactly a walking stereotype. Sherlock is gorgeous in his own right — tall and lanky with curious eyes and a charming smile, which even comes with double and triple chins when it's a true one. Take _that_ , Mr Hunky.

Instead of spending the rest of the class brooding about that, John keeps another sheet tucked under his current drawing, and sketches a quick caricature of the model. It's petty and immature, but he takes great joy at shaping that body into a dramatic V, with big, muscled frog legs and an even bigger head, plastered with a smile that would make anyone uncomfortable. He even gets the time to put him in a tiny red G-string leaving nothing to the imagination (and there is nothing much to show, unlike — and John hates it — in reality). He gets his brown marker to swipe all over his representation of the spray-tanned body.

That makes the time past quite fast, and he is relieved to see that class is ending just as he's finishing retouching his more serious drawing. Without waiting, he collects his things and walks away fast, only to be called back by Miss Ida. 

"John! Your drawing!" she says, waving the sheet of paper that has fallen from his bag. She looks down at it and throws her head back from laughter. 

Oh, God. She's seen the wrong one. 

He can feel his cheeks heating as he reaches for his drawing and stuffs it back into his bag. "Sorry about that," he mumbles. 

"Oh, don't!" Miss Ida says, still laughing. "Art is a matter of free expression, and… well, I understand your take on things, John. Sherlock should be back with us next class. Have a good week until then." 

John frowns, but thanks her and closes the door behind him. This wasn't about Sherlock — why did Miss Ida mention him?

Five minutes later, he's walking towards his usual bus stop behind the art department building, when he notices the now recognisable coat and dark, curly hair. 

"Sherlock!" he cries out and jogs towards him. 

Too taken with the sight of him, John notices at the last minute that Sherlock is already climbing on the bus.

Sherlock glances over his shoulder and notices John, the corner of his lips stretching in a smile, but it's too late — the door closes behind him, leaving John breathless on the pavement. 

He stands there for a moment, hand on the strap of his bag slung over his shoulder, but through the windows, he sees that Sherlock is moving towards the back of the bus. 

John's heart jumps in his chest as he steps onto the road. The traffic is heavy and he gets honked for it by the car behind him, but no one is moving much anyway. 

Through the dirtied windows, he sees Sherlock, a questioning look on his face. _What's going on?_

John points the art building with his thumb. _Why weren't you there?_

Sherlock manages to shrug and roll his eyes at the same time. _You know why._

On that, John shuffles through his backpack, walking behind the bus as it starts driving away. He gets to the caricature, and places it against the bus window, making a disgusted face. 

Sherlock laughs — that one triple-chinned laugh that makes John's heart go wobbly in his chest, and John would like to ask him if he's going to be back next week like Miss Ida had said, if he's still doing this after that one bad fall when he fell asleep, he'd like for the bus to stop driving away so fast to get the chance to say that he's missed Sherlock this week, that he's missed him, and that he'd like to see him more often if—

The bus pulls away from under his hand, and John stumbles on the road with his drawing, a cacophony of honking noises behind him.

"Fuck," he lets out, as he stands back up and glances up at the bus, only to see that Sherlock is leaning against the window, with something in his hand… Is he writing with a _marker_ on the glass?

_44 07911—_

John stares at the series of numbers for a second before he understands that what Sherlock is writing with a deep red _lipstick_ , is his mobile number.

"Fuck!" John repeats and whips his phone from his pocket. He glances back up, the bus too far to see the numbers, but he's memorised them for the next minute…

His heart beating hard in his chest, he enters the numbers to the contact he assigns simply as _Sherlock_. God, he doesn't even know his last name.

When John looks back up, the car that was behind swerves around him, and the driver doesn't shy away from flipping John off. 

John shrugs. Nothing could ever deter his good mood, now. Though he should probably get off the road if he wants to stay alive long enough to text Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

**John:** _Hey, Sherlock?_

It takes a moment, but the reply eventually comes:

 **Sherlock:** _Hello, John._

**John:** _Good, it's you. I really thought I might have entered a wrong number._

**Sherlock:** _You could have waited for me at the next stop. Driver threw me out for "property damage"._

**John:** _God. You could have been arrested for that._

**Sherlock:** _It's lipstick. It washes off._

 **John:** _You often carry lipstick in your bag?_

Maybe he carries his girlfriend's in case she forgets her own or something like that. Though John is not sure Sherlock would be that gentleman-y. And he did rather ruin the stick earlier today.

 **Sherlock:** _Not really. That was for a case._

John frowns at his phone, but replies nonetheless. He spends the rest of the evening reading Sherlock's texts about how he solved the mystery of a stolen rare book from the library from lipstick traces on a cup of coffee and the ripped buckle of a bag. 

At some point through the evening, Jeanette asks him through text if he wants to meet up and go see a movie tonight, the first time she has spoken to him in weeks, but John is too fascinated by Sherlock's tale to bother answering her.

When he goes to bed, hours later and phone in hand, long after his few exchanges with Sherlock have ended, John can't help but think about him and his wonderful mind. 

That night, he dreams of Sherlock sitting on the chair in his kitchen, naked, contemplating a flickering light behind him in a pose that John has not had yet the chance to draw.

The image burns in his mind until he picks up his pad and pencil in the morning. 

***

Next class, as promised, Sherlock is there and standing back on his platform, waiting to be drawn. 

John hasn't texted him back since that night, not knowing what to say. And so, instead, he decided to say nothing — he doesn't want to appear too clingy or needy, or like he doesn't have any friends, which would be profoundly uncool. In turn, Sherlock hasn't texted him either, which made John a bit anxious. Has he said something wrong? Is Sherlock simply not interested in talking to him?

His worries evaporate when Sherlock glances over his shoulder, that morning, as John is sitting down at his desk, and throws him a smile. A small one, the one that only stretches the left corner of his lips, but John takes it and smiles back. 

They keep on focusing on certain body parts this week as well, which John likes because it's way simpler than doing the whole of it. When Miss Ida passes behind John during the second part of the class and sees his drawing depicting Sherlock's seated thighs, slightly angled, with his cock softly resting between them, she showers him with compliments. 

"That is very good, John! You're getting your proportions and your perspective right. You maybe want to get more contrast with the shadows here," she says, pointing at a specific part of the drawing, "but it's very good work." 

John drops his head and tries to hide his smile, without too much success, because when he looks back up, Sherlock is staring at him, eyebrows lifted, as if to say, _You see, I told you that experiment would be good for you_.

John shakes his head, still beaming, before he tips his chin forward. _Yeah, well, I have to say I have a nice model to be drawing from_. 

And Sherlock must have not understood what John meant exactly, because he does one last thing before cleaning his face of all expressions, so fast that John isn't even sure it's real. 

He winks.

***

They spent the last three classes of the semester working on the final project which will decide if John passes the class or not. This time, Sherlock is half-sitting, half-lying, elbow propped on the arm of the loveseat, head turned to the side. 

The pose doesn't look comfortable to hold very long, but Sherlock has not moved since the beginning of the class, an hour and a half ago. Instead, he's been staring at an invisible point in the distance, a frown sometimes appearing on his otherwise relaxed features. From time to time, John catches him moving his lips, as if silently talking to himself. 

"John?" Miss Ida says, as she passes behind him. 

He looks down and realises that he's been staring at Sherlock for quite a while now, not making any progress on his drawing. 

Well, it's not exactly a drawing… Since this is a final project, Miss Ida has asked them to expand their drawing with another medium, oils, watercolours, pastels, anything that the students have been learning about in their other classes. All students, except John, of course, who has picked up a medium-sized canvas he is now splattering with cheap gouache paint. When Jeanette had learned John's plan, she sniffed and sighed as if his idea was a personal affront to her. John didn't care much, and Jeanette isn't even in class today. Maybe she finished her overcomplicated oil painting at home. He couldn't care less.

"Can you tell me what was your vision when you started this?" Miss Ida says, curious. 

"Er—" John looks at his canvas. 

He's drawn Sherlock quite accurately, having integrated everything they have seen since the beginning of the semester, but unlike most of the other students, he hasn't spent the last two classes painting or colouring the body as close to reality as it gets. Instead, John has splattered paint all around Sherlock, starting from his head with the brightest possible colours, working outward until the paint gets clearer and more pastel-like. Sherlock's body, in the middle of the canvas, has remained purposefully blank. 

"It's… He's not moving, I know, but it looks like he's always thinking about something. Like the world around him has something more to it, like he sees things we don't or don't have access to. I'm just… wondering what goes on in his head, that's all." 

Miss Ida's eyebrows quirk up. "And so you wanted to illustrate his thoughts?" 

"Yeah," John says. "It's not like I can separate the body from the mind, right? Both are essential and in this case… his mind even more, I guess," he adds, with a shrug. 

"Very good, John, very good," Miss Ida says, with a smile, before she walks up to the next desk. 

Another hour pass before the class ends, and John looks down at his canvas. The work is done: he has just been finalising a few details, adding bits of paint here and there, but he is pretty confident this final work will get him a good grade for the class. No need to fear for his scholarship, after four months of worrying.

As he starts to pack his things back in his bag, John looks up at where Sherlock is putting on his dressing gown and bites on his lower lip. He's waiting for the right moment to come up to him and ask if he's free after class: he'd really want to hear the rest of the green ladder story, the one Sherlock had mentioned as he finished texting about the lipstick case. Maybe he would even be amenable to talk about it… over a coffee, or something. It's not like they've done it before, but this time it would be… a bit more official. Would Sherlock want that?

Should John ask?

He squares his shoulders and is about to step up to the small podium when the doors bang open behind him: Jeanette springs into the class, hands fisted at her sides, hair messier than John has ever seen.

"Jeanette, are you—" he starts, but is stopped by a hissing sound he has never heard her make before. 

"You made out Murray at that party, haven't you?!" she shouts, pointing a finger at him. 

John jerks his chin back. "I— what the hell—" He can't exactly say no, but what is he going to do? Out Murray? Out himself?

"Just tell me, and we'll be done with this!" 

" _With this_?" John repeats, eyes growing wide. They weren't even together at that time! They _barely_ have been together at all! "What do you mean?"

"Oh God, John, don't you think you've lied enough to me? You pretend you're an artist when you clearly have no idea what you're doing since you've begun this class. You pretend you're with me—" 

John puts his hands up. "But we weren't even together!" 

"—when you kiss men behind my back! Wilson told me you went in the closet with Murray!"

"Jeanette, I don't—" 

"Take that, you lying bastard!" she screams, and dumps her coffee on John's painting. 

The door shuts with a bang and silence drops in the room like a bomb. Luckily enough, there was no one in the class but for Sherlock, and John isn't even sure if he's there anymore. He can't do anything but stare at his ruined work. Even should he jump forward and mop it with his sweatshirt, the coffee wouldn't wash away from the canvas. 

Three weeks of work, for nothing. 

"Fuck," he mutters to himself, his voice trembling, hands coming to fist in his hair. Okay, he's totally _not_ going to cry about this. "Fucking _shit_." 

The first rational thing to do would be to go to see Miss Ida. Ask for an extension. Redo the whole thing. And even if she lets him have a few days more for it, he can't achieve it without a model. And his med exams, which he actually needs to study, are coming up too. Oh God— Oh _God_. 

"Well," a deep voice behind his back wakes him from his stupor, "I don't see what was her problem."

John doesn't bother to turn towards Sherlock. This was quite humiliating, and it doesn't help that someone was there to witness it. 

"In fact," Sherlock says, not helpfully, " _I do_. Exam stress coupled with a failed experimental art class, and a desire to unload her frustrations upon an undeserving subject." 

John is about to turn on his heels and tell him to shut up, but Sherlock steps up to him and offers a handful of paper towels. 

"Here," he says, his voice suddenly soft, and John nods. 

He starts moping his desk, the canvas is no good use for anything but the bin, and watches as droplets of coffee splatter on the floor.

After a while, Sherlock brings in more paper towels and helps John with the floor, still naked under his — quite revealing — dressing gown. "If it makes any difference at all, it's clear that her accusations were unfounded."

John snorts. "I'm not even sure about that myself." 

Sherlock stops sweeping at the floor with his paper towels and looks up at John. They're rather close, on their knees like that, John realises.

"Oh, please, John, it's painfully clear that you'd be nothing but loyal in a clearly delimited relationship. Yet it is also evident that you two weren't on speaking terms for the past month and a half, during which you may have done certain things under the conviction that you were single at the time." 

"Yeah, about that…" John stands up. "Please don't tell anyone. I don't think Murray's…"

"Of course. Here, it looks like we did the best we could," Sherlock says, waving a hand at the floor. 

John tries to smile. "Sure… Thanks for that. I have no idea how I'll save my semester, though, but yeah, thanks."

He packs the rest of his bag and watches from the corner of his eye as Sherlock rubs at the back of his head. 

"Maybe—" Sherlock says. "Maybe I could pose for you. At your flat or something like that." 

John blinks. "You'd do that for me?" 

"Well, yes. After all the efforts we went through to secure your grades in this class, it would be a bit underwhelming to give up now." 

"Wouldn't it be a bit… I don't know, weird?" To have him in his flat, naked, but still in a somehow professional capacity?

"John, if I had any qualms about appearing naked in front of people I wouldn't have taken a job as a nude model in the first place." 

That actually makes John laugh, and for the first time, he realises how tense his shoulders were. "Okay. But I'll pay you, of course." 

Sherlock snorts. " _That_ would make things weird. Is tomorrow night is good for you?" he asks before John can place any other word in. 

"Right, er, yeah, I'm free tomorrow night." 

"Good. Send me your address. You know how to reach me." 

And on that, Sherlock disappears into the nearby changing room.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're earning our E rating, folks! Enjoy!

John gathers the white sheet he covers the sofa with, to make it look a bit more like the loveseat Sherlock usually sits on. Under his feet, the plastic sheet crinkles as he walks around the tiny living room of his flat: he'll probably make a mess with the jars of paint that sit under his easel, so it's a good idea to protect the floors before that happens unless he wants to be beheaded by their landlord. 

He glances over his shoulder one last time. Everything looks in order, Sherlock should be here in a minute. 

The doorbell rings once, and John buzzes whoever that is in. Except it's not _whoever_ , it's Sherlock, who is about to come in his flat and sit naked on his couch for John to paint him, and that feels three levels of _wrong_ — oh God, what if this is all a big mistake?

There's a knock on the door and John smears his moist hands over the front of his jeans, before he opens it, to reveal Sherlock waiting on the other side.

"Hi," John says, his throat dry. 

"Hello."

A pause. Sherlock is looking as good as ever, dressed in his fashionable clothes and a big coat, a blue scarf wrapped around his neck as the temperature outside has dropped a few degrees. It makes the blue of his eyes stand out even more. 

"Are you… going to let me in?" Sherlock asks.

John clears his throat. "Yeah, of course, come on in." He extends his hand towards the living room, showing Sherlock inside. "I arranged a few things around for this," he says, showing the sofa and the plastic on the ground.

Sherlock nods. 

John clears his throat again. "Do you maybe want… something to drink?" 

One of Sherlock's eyebrows quirks up. "No, John, I'd rather get to it right now. You're not the only one who has exams to study."

" _You_ need to study for exams?" John chuckles.

"Not really, but I do unfortunately need to produce lab reports," Sherlock says, waving a hand around. "They do not manifest themselves out of thin air."

"Sure, right, yeah, you can just— here, a chair for your things." He takes the chair from the kitchen table and places it near the sofa. 

Sherlock nods again, folds his coat over the back of the chair, and starts taking off his clothes. 

John turns his back on him, going to the kitchen, heart beating fast in his chest. In class, Sherlock had always been already naked or wearing a dressing gown when John would come in, and all the other students would behave as if that was entirely normal — which it is, considering it's Sherlock's job and an art class is probably the least sexy way of seeing someone naked, apart from like… a cadaver at a crime scene, probably. Or anatomy lab, when he comes to think of it. 

But this is different. It's his _living room_ , first of all, and he's never seen Sherlock taking his clothes off before. It's as if he has two states: clothed or naked. But to see him going from one to the other… That makes John's guts react in a way he isn't sure is good or bad.

Sherlock seems nonplussed at having to undress, of course. It comes with the job, but Sherlock has never been ashamed of his body or shy about appearing naked in front of people. John is confident in his looks, sure, but he would never imagine posing naked in front of a class. That's the kind of nightmare people have at night, John included.

Once the faint ruffling of fabric has stopped, and John believes Sherlock to be ready, he casually asks, "Are you cold? I can up the heating a few degrees if you'd like." 

"As you wish," comes the reply, and John takes that for a yes.

He moves back into the living room, making himself busy with fiddling the thermostat and not minding Sherlock at all. 

When he's done, he turns on himself, to see Sherlock standing near the sofa, a hand on his other arm, goosebumps all over his skin. This is not weird at all, John tells himself. Naked Sherlock in his flat, not weird at _aaaaall_. 

"Sorry, the temperature should be better in a few minutes. We can wait if you want to?" 

"I'll be fine," Sherlock says, a bit of annoyance in his tone. "Just tell me how you want me."

John bites on his lower lip. "Okay, so, the same pose that you had in class? I'll try to recreate what I have already drawn so it shouldn't take too long. I really want to be done with this today," he adds. 

If he is done with this today, though… it means he's not going to see Sherlock again. He sighs to himself. 

"Good," Sherlock says and positions himself on the sofa. 

He's closer to John than he usually is in class, and like that, John can see so many details that have escaped him for the past few months. Moles and freckles cover Sherlock's skin all over, the tip of his fingers is still red from the cold outside, as are his nose and cheek, a delicate contrast with the paleness of his skin, the creamy-white of the sheet under him and the soft grey of the wall behind.

John swallows, and Sherlock's eyes set on him. "Can you turn your head to the side, please?" 

It takes him a second or two, but finally, Sherlock's piercing gaze moves to the side. John arranged for the sofa to be perpendicular to a window, so he can have the same lighting as in the studio, but also so Sherlock can look outside and have some kind of distraction for the few hours this will take. 

"You tell me when you get uncomfortable so we can take a break," John says, and he's serious about that. Sherlock seems to be able to stay still for hours at the time, but John doubts the sofa is as comfortable as the seat in the classroom. 

Again, Sherlock does not reply, but nods, the movement of his chin barely visible. There's something different about him, John notices, as he picks up his pencil to draw the contour of Sherlock's body. He's not sure he can pinpoint what it is — Sherlock looks graver, maybe a bit more tense than usual. It doesn't show in his pose, his body long and relaxed, his hands elegantly resting on the sofa, not an ounce of tension in them. Yet there is something in his eyes, and in the wrinkle between his eyebrows, as if Sherlock cannot quite get away from the situation today and enter the world he usually does when he starts thinking, as John has seen so many times now. 

Maybe he stresses over the upcoming exams. Maybe he's still a bit cold.

John doesn't ask — he doesn't think Sherlock would be prone to share, and so he starts working on his canvas, sketching Sherlock's body with an easiness he has acquired in the past few weeks. It's a bit strange, knowing a person's body that well when he isn't involved with them, but he's done his fair share of strange things in that drawing class to care about any of them now.

The first half-hour is spent in silence until John messes up a corner of his canvas and his heart tries to dig its way through his throat. It's salvageable, of course, but his thoughts spin out of control: what if he messes it up for good and Sherlock doesn't want to help him out anymore? What if he does finish this one piece of work but doesn't pass the class anyway? He can't have his scholarship revoked, not when he doesn't have the time to have a part-time job on top of his rugby training and games. He'd have to let down his team and find a job, and maybe another flat, which would be cheaper and further away from uni, and he would lose all his time in the Tube—

"You know you're going to pass this class, right?"

John whips his head to get a good look at Sherlock, not sure if he's heard the words correctly or somehow hallucinated them. Sherlock doesn't usually speak when he poses, but it's not exactly as if he would chat up a whole conversation with the rest of the class. 

"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you," John says, still working at that pencil blotch that got badly erased.

"Oh, please," Sherlock says, without moving an inch, or turning his head. "Czerny loves you, she would never make you fail a class which you weren't supposed to take in the first place." 

"I guess we'll see." He really doesn't have any argument to bring up against this. "All right, I think it's painting time," he lets out with a sigh. "She's way better than Anderson, anyway." 

"A dancing frog would be better at teaching art than Anderson." 

John chuckles, and opens a few jars of paint he has left at his feet. He keeps talking to Sherlock and notices how that somehow melts away the tension from Sherlock's face. It's nice to have a conversation like that, talking about nothing in particular. John is too concentrated on his canvas to raise more interesting subjects, but it looks like Sherlock doesn't mind. 

Just like in class, John starts applying the paint by going around Sherlock's head first, where the colours are most concentrated. He bought cheap brushes for this since Miss Ida couldn't lend him the ones he has been using in class. Or rather, he didn't ask, not wanting to have to explain everything that happened with Jeanette. He's not sure which side would Miss Ida take, and he doesn't need to make himself another enemy, especially one that has so much power upon his grades. 

John groans. These brushes are not really good, and they get the paint in blotches instead of spreading it evenly as John wants it to. He presses on the canvas, trying to smooth away the lumps of paint forming left and right, before he takes his brush and bangs it on the side of his easel, trying to get the lumps out. 

"Watch out!" Sherlock yelps, as droplets of blue paint splatter on his skin. 

"Oh, come on, it's just paint, it washes off," John grumbles, irritated with how bad his painting looks like now. 

"Right, _just_ paint," Sherlock says. He breaks his pose to wet two fingers in the nearest jar of red paint and splashes them at John, who barely has the time to hide behind his easel. 

"Hey, I'm wearing clothes, here!"

"Good, I won't miss _these_ ," Sherlock sneers at John's outfit. 

"Really? _Really,_ Sherlock? Take that, then!" 

John seizes the closest jar of paint and throws its content in Sherlock's general direction. Time seems to slow down as he watches the blue blotch of paint travel through the air and splash over Sherlock's chest, who gasps. 

"How dare you—" he starts, laughter in his tone as he is about to stand up, but John reaches him before that, smearing more paint over his shoulder and pushing him back down on the couch. 

Sherlock laughs as he tries to seize John's wrists, fighting him off, but John holds him down against the sofa, holding out the bottle of paint over Sherlock and squeezing its contents on him. 

What he doesn't see coming is Sherlock's arm getting from under him and grabbing at another bottle that has rolled on the floor. The next thing John knows, green paint is squirting all over his shoulder and face, and he barely has the time to turn his head to avoid the worst of it. 

" _You!_ " he gasps, laughing, his hands slipping over the paint on Sherlock's body, his clothes a mess. 

He brings a hand to Sherlock's face and smears paint all over his cheek, his jaw, before Sherlock knees him the small of his back and John falls chest first on him. 

"Ha!" Sherlock laughs, triumphant, squeezing more and more paint over the back of John's sweatshirt, who retaliates by grabbing that arm. 

"Let go!" he hisses.

"Never!" 

"Let _go_!"

He squeezes Sherlock's wrist hard enough for him to drop that bottle on the ground. John rolls on top of him and grabs it off the floor, Sherlock taking the advantage to try and push him off the sofa, but receives a splash of paint on his neck instead. 

"Oh God," he lets out, and his hand swipes at John's face, to push him away and dirty him at the same time. 

John laughs and tries to get on his knees, hands on Sherlock's heaving chest, but he slips from the paint under his palms and lands once again on top of Sherlock. He goes for another strategy and smears threes lines of paint over Sherlock's chin.

"Is that what you want?" he shouts, Sherlock squirming under him. "Just admit defeat!" 

" _No_." 

"Oh, come on, you lost!" 

"No!" Sherlock tries to get from under him, wiggling his hip, without much success. He throws his head back, half-panting, half-laughing. 

"You lost," John teases him.

To demonstrate his point, John gets his hand back over Sherlock's face, drawing quick lines of paint here and there, on his cheeks, on his chin, but Sherlock shakes his head, not wanting to admit defeat just yet, and John's finger catches on Sherlock's lower lip. 

Sherlock's tongue peaks out and nudges the tip of John's thumb.

Time stops. 

He feels everything:

Sherlock's chest heaving under him. 

Sherlock's eyes intent on him, his blue gaze deepened by his dilating pupils. 

Sherlock growing hard under him. 

The next thing he knows, Sherlock's hands fist themselves in his sweatshirt, bringing them closer together until their lips meet. 

And the world starts turning again: Sherlock's mouth is warm and his lips are blotched with paint, his kissing playful and aggressive, his hands all over John, as John grabs both sides of his head. 

Their noses mash one against the other, and the kiss is full of tongue and teeth, squirming body against squirming body. 

"Fuck," Sherlock pants, throwing his head back as John press kisses to his coloured skin, to his jaw, to his neck, getting that sweet spots that earn him another knee in the guts, another round of common laughter. 

He brings back his attention to Sherlock's mouth, and they kiss and kiss until John's lips start to feel numb. Sherlock's hands have found their way under John's sweatshirt, under his tee-shirt, cold paint on John's warm skin, exploring John's back, lower and lower until John feels them under the band of his trousers, grabbing at his arse. 

He groans into the kiss, one hand on Sherlock's hip as Sherlock lifts both of his knees, slotting John against him right where they are both hard and wanting. 

John feels so high that he wonders for a moment if that paint might be toxic, if they have been inhaling fumes for longer than they should have. But it's gouache, really, and for kids, so it must be something else, because John can't stop, he can't stop kissing Sherlock, his cheeks, his ear, his neck, feeling his cock dig in his stomach against his own, and all of it feels so delicious that John instantly knows what he wants. 

He stills, and Sherlock looks up, worry written in his eyes as if he has done something wrong, as if he is the cause John has stopped moving. 

It takes him another second. Another second to ask himself: are you sure? Another second to convince himself: hell yeah.

The moment he knows, he slips down Sherlock's body, hands messing through the paint until there is not a single patch of bare skin to be seen. Until his eyes set on the pretty cock he's seen a hundred times, but never erect like that. 

John licks his lips. 

Looks up. 

Bites his hands down on Sherlock's hips.

"You clean?" John asks, his voice in a whisper. 

Sherlock nods, his eyes growing wide. 

"Can I do this?" 

Sherlock nods again. 

And so John does. 

A shiver runs down his spine from apprehension. Fortunately, Sherlock's cock and most of his thighs have been spared from the paint fight, so he will not risk intoxication or anything like that. 

Now or never, John tells himself and bends down to lick a stripe up Sherlock's cock. 

Sherlock hisses, a hand coming to fist itself in John's hair, which makes him groan. John licks him, again, and again, until Sherlock's hips are squirming. He takes a single breath and descends his mouth on Sherlock's cock, wrapping his lips around him. 

It's not bad. It's not bad at all. It is, in fact, very good. 

Different from a girl — _obviously_ , Sherlock would say — but still very good. Sherlock is heavy and leaking already on John's tongue, and John likes it, likes the texture of it, likes how his jaw stretches under the intrusion. 

Slowly, he starts working his mouth up and down Sherlock's shaft, until he remembers he also has a tongue, and puts it to good use as well, pressing into the spot that he likes himself when he's at the other end of a blowjob.

Sherlock throws his head back and moans. It doesn't last long, in the end, and just as John wonders if he's hallucinating or the texture of Sherlock's cock has changed a bit, Sherlock only has the time to breathe out a quick _John!_ before hefloods his mouth. John swallows — he wanted to do this anyway — a bit uncoordinated, trying to watch Sherlock's face at the same time (without success) and barely avoids to choke on him.

Sherlock's head falls back against the arm of the sofa, but John stays there, giving Sherlock's cock a bit of attention in the aftershock, something he likes himself but never received much from his past girlfriends. At the same time, he manages to push the palm of his hand in his jeans, and onto his cock. He was too concentrated on his task to mind his erection, but he feels so aroused right now that it nearly pains him. 

"John," Sherlock says, waist squirming as he becomes too sensitive for John's attention on him. 

John lifts his head and kisses Sherlock's hip, where the paint has dried. 

" _John_ ," Sherlock repeats, slightly out of breath, as his eyes follow John's hand stuck between his legs. 

Eyes on Sherlock, John feels as two of his fingers insert inside the band of his jeans, and tug at him, making him come up against Sherlock's body. John groans as Sherlock's other hand pushes itself under the fabric to grab at John's bare arse. He catches onto the back of the sofa not to fall against Sherlock yet another time, and with his other hand, unzips his fly. 

"John." 

"God, yes."

Sherlock's hands seem everywhere at once, and John leans in for a kiss, panting in Sherlock's mouth, who gently tongues at John's upper lip. They both blindly work to get John's jeans down his thighs, and Sherlock's long fingers wrap themselves at once around John's cock. 

" _Fuck_ ," he lets out, dropping his head to Sherlock's shoulder. 

A low whine vibrates down his throat as Sherlock jerks him off, biting on his lower lip in concentration. John surges forward once more, pressing his mouth to the corner of Sherlock's lips on a spot of red paint, a rumble of words on his tongue. _Fuck, yes, just like that, that's so good, you're so good, fuck, so bloody_ — He fucks up Sherlock's curled fist, trying not to entirely forget good manners, but Sherlock himself does not seem to mind. 

He lets his mouth fall open and closes his eyes as his balls draw heavy and tight against his body, and it's Sherlock's hand coming to grab at his arse that tips him over the edge. John comes, and it seems to never end, as he spills and spills again, adding his own to the blotches of paint on Sherlock's body. 

When he finally comes down, he's lying on his side, half on top of Sherlock, half against the back of the sofa, their legs and arms intertwined. Without a word, Sherlock leans in to press his mouth against his. The kiss is slow and Sherlock's lips are soft, and John can't help but lazily travel his hands over Sherlock's shoulders and back as they share those long, long minutes in complete silence. At some point, Sherlock reaches for the hem of John's sweatshirt, and pushes it over his head, his hands coming in contact with John's biceps, before finding their way under John's tee-shirt, palming at his abs. 

"God, you're gorgeous," John says, and Sherlock makes a pleased sound. "A true piece of art," he adds with a wink.

Sherlock groans, and rubs his face against John's shoulder.

"Wait," John says. "This gives me an idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex scenes involving paint belong to gay people, it seems. See I Killed my Mother by Xavier Dolan or the Lucas season of SKAM France for proof of that. ;) 
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely comments, as always. I'm a bit behind on answering them but I'll get to it as soon as possible!


	7. Chapter 7

"Well, John," Miss Ida says, "when I asked you to paint Sherlock, I didn't quite mean _literally_."

She sets the photo down on her desk and crosses her fingers together. John rubs at his knee. Okay, so maybe this wasn't the best idea to secure his grade in this class, but he sure as hell wasn't going to pass if he had handed in the blotchy painting he tried to make before things got interesting, the other day at his flat.

"Well…" John starts, trying for humour, "you didn't really specify what you meant by asking us to paint the model, miss."

His words make her laugh, throwing her head back, before setting her forehead against her palm. "You know what, John?" Her eyes are glistening. "You don't think of yourself as an artist, but try to get between an artist and their vision and it will lead you to the exact conversation we're having now." 

John grins. "Does it mean I pass the class?" 

Miss Ida raises the photo once more. "I mean, it is an excellent photograph."

"Thank you." 

He does think it too. Like in the original pose, Sherlock is half-lying on the sofa, propped on the arm at the other end, looking over to the side, an unlit cigarette between his lips. The strong smears of blue, red, green and yellow, mixing into muddy brown at the corners, are strong against the white sheet tangled in Sherlock's legs, and the grey of the wall behind him. The sheet passes in front of his groin — not that John has anything against cocks anymore, or showing off a nude Sherlock (he may very well keep his job next semester) — but Sherlock's pinkish, spit-slick, post-orgasmic cock is very much John's for the keeping, and not to be shared with anyone else. Like further conversation with Sherlock established.

John knows very well that Miss Ida sees what he sees: Sherlock's messy, ruffled-up hair, the one droplet of semi-clear fluid on his stomach he missed when cleaning Sherlock, the clear imprint of two red palms, one on each hip. It doesn't take an artist who understands proportions to guess where John's head might have been. 

"Of course you pass the class, John," Miss Ida says, bringing John's eyes back on her. "The administrative mess you were involved in what not your fault, yet you kept showing up to class and you made tremendous progress since then. Acknowledging that you only started this semester, the final project I saw you start was very much above the average in terms of what we usually expect. It's a pity that the work got… destroyed in the process - you should have come to me with that, by the way, such things are not accepted here," she adds, and John understands that she got wind of what happened. "But you would have got a good grade nonetheless for it. As much as I have to admit that the photograph isn't quite what I was looking for in this assignment, I have to say that you do have an artistic eye. So yes, of course, you pass the class." 

John looks down and starts breathing again. "Thank you," he says, this time a lot more sincerely.

Miss Ida answers him with a smile. "May I ask you… what was your vision behind this one, exactly?" She takes the photo between her index and thumb and waves it gently. "I thought your original project meant to illustrate the model's thoughts by painting the environment around him. Why choose to paint nothing but his body, this time around?" 

John shrugs. There is no way in hell he is going to tell her the real reason. "Sometimes a body is just a body."

She beams at him. "Very well, John, very well." 

He wonders what she got out of this one. Artists are good at finding meaning other people never implied in the first place, John now knows.

"In any case, if you are interested, I am giving a photography seminar next semester, should you want to join it. I promise, this time it really is an optional class, open to all students coming from different backgrounds. No prior experience demanded."

"Ha!" John laughs, gathering his bag. "I think my art days are over, Miss Ida, but thank you for the invitation." 

"Let me know if you change your mind, in any case."

John waves his hand, meaning _I'll sure do_ , but before he reaches the door, Miss Ida speaks again. "Oh, and John? I'm happy for you and Sherlock, really."

"You knew?" Well, if she didn't know before today, John confirmed it with the photograph.

Miss Ida chuckles. "You could have cut the tension with a knife in there. I have to say I'm glad it doesn't happen every semester." 

"Sorry about that," John says, and Miss Ida replies with an equally wide grin as he steps through the door.

***

_Sherlock stands from the sofa and rubs his neck. He glances down, takes a look at his paint-and-cum covered body, and groans. "I need to take a shower."_

_"Right," John says, from his stool. "Bathroom's first door on the left down the corridor."_

_Sherlock takes a step forward and throws a look over his shoulder. "Join me?"_

_John clears his throat. "In a moment?"_

_He turns away from Sherlock as he starts putting some order back into the living room. Fortunately, both the sofa and the floor have been spared by their paint fight, but not quite the nearest wall on which John can see a few drops of blue. He smiles to himself and lets his bag down against the stool and the unfinished canvas on the easel. There will be time for that later, but now, there's a naked Sherlock in his shower and he should be damned should he not take on that invitation._

_Abandoning everything behind, John steps into the bathroom, where the shower is already running, humidity filling his lungs. "Sherlock? Still okay if I get in?"_

_Sherlock hums a positive answer, and so John quickly undresses, happy to shed his dirtied clothes on the floor._

_He pushes the curtain away and gets in the tub, not before getting a good look at Sherlock's back and arse, as his back is on him, scrubbing his front against the [jet] of the shower._

_"Need help with that?" John says._

_His skin is still riddled with paint that doesn't seem to come off so easily, and Sherlock can't get easy access to his back, across which John's hands have smeared blue and red._

_Sherlock groans. "Get my back," he says, and hands John the loofah (which is most certainly Molly's, because neither Greg or John would have ever bought something like that in the first place)._

_"All right," John says._

_He starts scrubbing at Sherlock's back, watching as the paint dislodges itself and falls in colourful streams. He's seen him naked countless times, of course, but never quite so close, and never touching him. This is something else, he thinks, passing the loofah over Sherlock's back, focusing on the small details, the freckles, the moles, he can only see from this close, the roll of Sherlock's back muscles under his hands. He scrubs him somewhat efficiently, while Sherlock is taking care of his front._

_After a moment, Sherlock turns in the exiguous tub to face John, his skin pinkish from the scrubbing, his mouth half-open. The warm water is raising thick clouds between them, the silence heavy with anticipation._

_Sherlock licks his lips and angles his head, and ever so slowly inches forwards until their noses brush. From here, John can see the details of his eyelashes, the droplets of water clinging onto them._

_"Is this okay?" Sherlock whispers, because John has been supposedly straight until the last hour-and-a-half after having jumped on Sherlock, yet Sherlock is still the one who is asking him, because this is not an impulsive decision in the spur of the moment during a silly fight, but a very clear invitation to make out in the shower. And maybe more._

_"God, yes."_

_The kiss is slow and soft, nothing more than a press of lips at first, nothing as hurried as their first one. John feels the beginning of Sherlock's burgeoning erection against his stomach. He isn't far behind, arousal pooling low in his belly._

_He trails his hands from Sherlock's neck down his back and cups his arse, water running over his fingers. Sherlock groans into the kiss, and moves closer until they are standing flush, chest-to-chest._

_He brings one of his hands to Sherlock's stomach and accidentally knocks Sherlock's cock._

_"Is this?" John asks, looking down at where their erections meet, his hand on Sherlock's hip._

_"John."_

_John looks up. "I need a yes," he teases him._

_"Oh my God, yes, just touch me."_

_John wraps his hand around both of them._

_Okay, so he might have watched some gay porn, which contradicts a bit the whole "supposedly straight until the last hour-and-a-half". So what?_

_Sherlock hisses, ducking his head in the crook of John's neck, where he kisses him. John really hopes he'll leave a mark. He looks down, and even though his fingers can't quite reach around them both and the height difference doesn't help much, he starts jerking them off. Slowly, at first, to watch their foreskins move together, hypnotised._

_It's so fucking good, John wonders why he ever thought he was straight in the first place._

_He could have missed on this, he reflects, with a pang of guilt. If things had been different, if he hadn't met Sherlock, or had that discussion with Murray, if—_

_"Stop thinking, for God's sake," Sherlock mumbles against his skin._

_John snorts. Yeah, he's got a bit carried away for a second._

_He finds Sherlock's lips again and proceeds to let go of his cock in favour of Sherlock's. It's not the biggest, but long, just like the man itself, and its weight feels just perfect in John's hands. And to say he's had it in his mouth not so long ago. Fuck._

_He drops his hand lower, to tug at Sherlock's balls, and then presses the back of his index finger just behind them. Sherlock moans, his hand digging on John's waist._

_Okay, so John might have watched some gay porn, and maybe researched a bit about prostates in a non-medical setting. So what?_

_He brings back his hand to Sherlock's cock and starts to jerk him off in earnest, listening to the plethora of sounds escaping Sherlock's mouth and trying to elicit even more of those._

_"Ah, John," Sherlock says, hurriedly._

_"Yeah?"_

_"John."_

_Sherlock hurriedly brings his lips to John as his cock starts twitching in John's hand, but there is barely any kissing as Sherlock's mouth forms that delightful round O as he orgasms._

_"Gorgeous," John whispers as he watches him come, streak after streak washing off instantly with the water running down his body._

_After a second, Sherlock stumbles forward, slipping on the tub's floor, and John wraps both hands around him._

_He smiles against Sherlock's shoulders, words he is barely aware of escaping his mouth, as he traces slow circles on Sherlock's back._

_The next thing John knows, Sherlock is going down on his knees in front of him._

_"Oh fuck," John mumbles, and Sherlock grins at him before he wraps a hand around his cock and brings it to his mouth._

_Okay, so it's been a while. And, well, most of his ex-girlfriends weren't particularly fond of giving blowjobs, which John can understand, but holy shit— Sherlock is going at it as if John were a feast laid bare for him. Which he might be. Oh my God. Three Continent Watson's past sex life seems pretty boring right now._

_Though John has noticed the enthusiasm, he finds out that Sherlock is also very, very good at blowjobs._

_For a moment, John's heart squeezes in his chest, because in comparison, his earlier performance was probably subpar. Sherlock is moving his tongue in wicked ways and then presses it right against his frenulum, making John's vision go blurry._

_He pushes Sherlock's wet curls away from his face, to see him better, but that might be a mistake: the sight of Sherlock, the man whose body he's been painting and appreciating for months now, is on his knees, cheeks hollowed around his cock._

_"Oh fuck," I all that John can say._

_He settles his hand in Sherlock's hair, trying as hard as he cannot help but start to thrust into the wet heat of Sherlock's mouth, and miserably fails to. Sherlock is accommodating, and even though John doesn't push too far, he does wonder if Sherlock would be able to deep-throat him one day._

_That particular thought is the one to send him over the edge._

_"Sherlock, watch—"_

_But Sherlock only groans in answer and doesn't pull back, and soon enough he is swallowing around John as he spends himself down Sherlock's throat, and John can feel that as well._

_They get out of the shower kissing and giggling after the water turns cold, and silence grows as they get back in their clothes. It's only when he steps on the landing that Sherlock asks, somewhat sheepishly, "John, should I be expecting you to call me?", to which John replied, "You silly man, I'm already on my phone."_

_The rest? Well, it's history._

***

John pushes the door and steps out of the art classroom, to the welcome sight of a tall man in a black coat.

Sherlock looks up, and the moment he sees John's smile, his shoulders sag. 

"I thought you were positively confident I would pass," John teases him, slipping his hand down to link his fingers with Sherlock's. "I thought the statistics were at like, ninety-six percent."

Sherlock leans in and kisses him softly. "Nine-six isn't a hundred," he says. "And that was before you decided to submit a _photograph_ to a _painting_ assignment."

"Hey, there was _some_ painting involved." 

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him, but before he can reply, Miss Ida steps out of the classroom. They turn towards her, and John slips his arm around Sherlock's waist.

"Oh, Sherlock," she says, remembering something. "I wanted to ask you, are you still up for modelling next semester?" 

"Yes, of course." 

"Great! Happy holidays to you two, then," she adds, swinging her coat over one shoulder. "And John, let me know about that photography class." 

"Happy holidays," Sherlock says, before turning to John, one eyebrow raised: "Photography class?" 

"I told you that photo was good." 

"Not good enough for a _drawing_ class."

"Oh my God, here we go again," John grumbles. 

"Are you going to take that class?" 

John shakes his head. "I think the world has suffered enough at the hand of my art."

"I haven't," Sherlock says, a sly smile on his face. "I have greatly enjoyed your art. And you already know where to find a good model." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait for this one, but I had a lot to do university-wise even with all that's going on, and then I totally lost track of time. But here we are! We are at the very end of this story, there is only a very short epilogue that should follow soon-ish. I haven't had the time yet to answer your lovely, lovely comments but I will do so in the next few days. <3333


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the time this took to update: unfortunately, the added stress of the pandemic made me stop writing for a bit in the spring, and since then I've been stressing out even more at the prospect of updating it this late, hahaha. Which is extra silly, because this epilogue is very short, but in any case, here it is! Enjoy!

**_Four months later_ **

On 221b's kitchen table, an assortment of photographs:

A stack of black and white photos depicting the corner of a brick building. A post-it on top reads, "First assignment".

A black and white photo of a blurred, shadowed silhouette — Sherlock — against a white wall, holding dried-out branches in front of his face.

A colored photo of Sherlock, on top of a boulder in the Dartmoor, his coat whipping around him as he looks in the distance.

Another photo of Sherlock, at the inn, smirking at John over the straw of his iced coffee.

The first one with John as a subject: lying on his front on an ugly hotel bedding, knees bent and naked but for the long, silly ananas socks he's wearing. His hands cover his face, but his laughing smile shows nonetheless.

A series depicting Molly and Greg, the blur of a party behind them, whispering to each other's ears. On the next one, they're kissing, and it's clear there's a lot of tongue involved. On the third, Greg is raising his middle finger towards the camera, Molly laughing against his mouth.

Sherlock, holding up an agenda covered with hand-drawn penises. His smirk says it all.

Morning sunshine splaying over the knobs of a spine. A long, naked back, and a cloud of brown curls disappearing under the pillow.

Half-hidden under the first one, another photo in the same setting, but this time, Sherlock is turned on his back, making eyes at the camera. The duvet is pulled low, showing his erection, flat against his belly.

The third photo of the set, too blurry to describe: a lot of skin, a penis, perhaps two? Unclear.

A picture of Sherlock, looking dead-tired and well-caffeinated, his head emerging from an oversized red hoodie as he's bend half-over homework, half over an experiment. The clock on the oven shows 2:34 in the morning. Another cup of coffee on the table and medical textbooks signals John's presence, never far.

The last picture: a crooked selfie clearly taken by Sherlock from the slight frown on his face as he extends his arm and tries to get the right angle to no avail, since the picture cuts right bellow his nose. His head is cocked to the side, and John, in turn, takes it as an opportunity to sneak a kiss on his cheek. A happy little accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after and had many other happy little accidents along the way (artful or not! :P). Thank you to all those who were patient with me and this story, and for following and commenting along. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover | Happy Little Accidents](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28905675) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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